The Young Sherlock Holmes
by Otterly Lost
Summary: "Generally, pirates don't collect small rodent skeletons as their... 'booty.'" A series of short stories set in Sherlock's childhood at varying ages. Ratings will vary; for now set as T just for safety's sake.
1. Harvey, Punkies, and Pirates

"Generally, pirates don't collect small rodent skeletons as their... 'booty.'"

The final word was laden with thinly veiled sarcasm and spoken by a somewhat portly and ginger haired young boy of about twelve. He stood and stared down his long nose at his baby brother, a child with a bird nest of thick black curls and large, silver eyes that saw far, far too much. The older boy's expression was one of exasperated patience while the younger's was stubborn and round.

"You wouldn't get me a parrot so Harvey will have to work,"the petulant five year old said. Tiny hands delicately held the fragile rabbit skeleton.

Mycroft sighed and looked away. "You would have just experimented on it, Sherlock,"he said softly. "That's how you got Harvey, after all..." He looked back down at the smaller boy. "At any rate, do you have your beet ready?"

Sherlock frowned. "It's not a beet,"he whined. "'s a punkie, Mycroft! See?" To prove this fact, he placed Harvey the rabbit skeleton down on the ground and instead grabbed the rather large beet that he'd nicked from the kitchen. He turned it and held it up over the top of his head, the carved side facing out.

Carefully carved into its surface was two boxes. The first contained a large S in the center; at the left, top corner, written small but clearly, was a sixteen and at the bottom, right corner was 32.065. The second was set up in a similiar fashion with the exception that the letter was H and the numbers were, respectively, one and 1.00794. Doodled awkwardly over the top of these two boxes was a parrot.

Mycroft looked at the beet. The beet looked back.

"Yes... Amusing,"Mycroft drawled and the turnip was jerked away, tucked under Sherlock's tiny arm. Sherlock bent down and scooped Harvey up under the other arm before standing proud.

"Fix my eye patch, Mycroft!"he ordered.

"A please would be a nice start to that sentence, Sherlock,"Mycroft responded.

Sherlock glared, bottom lip rolling out. "Why?"he said sharply. "Manners are boring and stupid."

Mycroft gave a long suffering sigh. "Auntie gave you a book explaining why, Sherlock,"he said. "A book you promised Mummy you would read thoroughly..."

Sherlock jerked away from Mycroft and huffed. "_How to Behave and Why_? That book is complete dribble-"

"Drivel."

"-and incredibly _dull_! Now... Fix my eye patch!" Sherlock stomped his foot for emphasis.

Mycroft gave him a hard stare, one which Sherlock returned quite well. The staring contest continued for all of about a minute before Mycroft's lip twitched and he swooped forward to straighten the thick, black cloth. He backed away and peered at his younger brother, now dressed in perfect pirate attire, complete with both a tricorn hat _and_ straight eye patch. Sherlock beamed, clearly proud before heading to the door with a spring in his step.

Mycroft sighed, straightened his own attire which consisted of the dark colored clothes of a ninja. Sherlock had threatened to tell Mummy if he didn't dress up in a costume; fortunately, he hadn't be particularly specific about what kind of costume.

Adjusting his dark umbrella on his arm, Mycroft followed after Sherlock.

* * *

The Holmes Manor was vast and full of long corridors, all decorated regally, if... somewhat sparsely. It was down these halls that Sherlock and Mycroft patrolled, fully dressed in their disguises. Doorways lined them on both sides, each with a latern made from a turnip hung on their surfaces.

"Simply pick one, Sherlock,"Mycroft said, looking worn already with the amount of legwork this whole charade was taking.

Sherlock frowned and gave Mycroft a surly look before stomping off to toward one of the doors. Mycroft followed a few steps behind, knocking for his ladened down little brother. After a few seconds the door swung open to reveal the smiling maid Estelle, dressed in casual clothes instead of her work clothes.

"Hullo there, Cap'n Sherlock,"she said, her voice pitched higher and excited. "What can I do for you?"

Sherlock's lips thinned but a squeeze at his shoulder by Mycroft kept him from saying anything too cutting to the woman. "E'stortion,"he said sharply.

Estelle's brow furrowed and she glanced cautiously at Mycroft. Mycroft gave a thin smile. "He means, trick or treat,"he said.

Sherlock let out a huff. "That's what I said!"he barked sharply.

Estelle gave a nervous titter. "Right,"she said smoothly before backing away from the door. She returned with a few sweets and dropped the easily into the bag hanging off Sherlock's arm. Once this was complete, Sherlock turned and walked away, leave Mycroft behind.

"Thank you,"Mycroft said. "Your patience for his whims is most gratifying."

"It's no trouble,"Estelle said, voice normal now that she was speaking with the oldest child. "If it keeps him from mucking about under my feet and poking his nose in where it doesn't belong..."

Mycroft Holmes does not wince... if he did, however, this would have been a stupendous one.

"Yes... the last time that happened didn't go over well... Mummy was very upset that day..."

"Mycroft!"

He gave Estelle another brittle smile. "The captain calls,"he offered, before turning and leaving.

* * *

By the end of that day, Sherlock had a surprising amount of candy and one apple, which he graciously gave to Mycroft when divvying up their "haul", as he called it.

"Really who gives apples on Halloween?"

"Someone who is concerned about childhood obesity, I'm sure."

"We should do this again... next week!"


	2. Firsts

**Warning: **The following is very short and very sweet; it'll rot your teeth with the sweetness of it. Also, note that these short drabbles won't always go in order. Just whatever idea strikes me is what I'll write.

* * *

The day young Sherlock was born, Mummy got very sick and Father went far away. Mummy sat in her chambers and cried while the maids tut-tutted around her and Sherlock. There were mumbles about affairs and lovers when they thought no one was around to hear. Mycroft, seven and very good at hide and seek(particularly the hiding part), was always there to hear though. It was at seven that he placed himself in the position of man of the house.

He came in every morning to sit with Mummy and to stroke Sherlock's downy black hair. Then he'd leave for a day of teachers and books and politics(he did so love them). Once finished, he'd come back at precisely four in the afternoon. He'd settle on the bed with Mummy, tucked under her arm with his head resting against her bussom. She'd stroke his ginger hair and let him hold Sherlock safe and close and warm. Sometimes, when she wasn't feeling particularly ill, she'd read Frankenstien outloud. Sometimes, when she was feeling particularly ill, Mycroft would read Frankenstien outloud.

The days and weeks pass slowly and Sherlock gets bigger and bigger while Mummy gets better and better. Mycroft keeps his constant vigilant, visiting every morning and staying every afternoon. He learns how to bathe Sherlock and how to feed him. The maids titter around him, cooing at him. "What a good big brother you are!"they'd say.

Mummy finally goes back to work when Sherlock is two months old. She isn't there when Sherlock says his first word at three months(which, was quite clearly, Mycroft). She isn't there when Sherlock finally becomes mobile(crawling toward Mycroft at six months and again, tottering around the manor behind Mycroft at eight months). She isn't there when Sherlock begins to read from his very first book(at a year old and from one of Mycroft's old chemistry text books). Indeed, she isn't there for a lot of Sherlock's firsts...

... but that was okay; Mycroft was.


End file.
